


Star Cross(word) Lovers

by scratchedandinked



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Additionally Mister Sims is a huge sap and loves his boyfriend very much, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Wears a Skirt, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Post-Canon, everything is fine and everyone is happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:08:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26246911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchedandinked/pseuds/scratchedandinked
Summary: The worst part of proposing was that Jon had to wait. He never really knew what he was waiting for, but that was part of the joy, wasn’t it? The part that made it all feel real and true—that highlighted the love that should be kept close, but equally shared.But still: Jon didn’t know when he was supposed to propose exactly, but he knew he was going to-- but he definitely didn't expect it to be over a Sunday crossword puzzle. Not at all.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 218





	Star Cross(word) Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of [this](https://sel-jpg.tumblr.com/post/623752212681719808/jon-are-you-proposing-to-me) wonderful piece of fanart. I saw it and it checked so many of my own personal interest boxes-- I couldn't help myself. Please go check the piece out and support their art it's incredible! xo

The worst part of proposing was that Jon had to wait. He never really knew what he was waiting _for_ , but that was part of the joy, wasn’t it? The part that made it all feel real and true—that highlighted the love that should be kept close, but equally shared.

Jon didn’t know when he was supposed to propose _exactly_ , but he knew he was going to.

The moment arrived, abruptly but gladly, one gloomy Sunday morning in January. The sky was flat, gray, and thick; spongey fog having rolled in over the city while they were sleeping. Jon didn’t know the moment was approaching when he first blinked awake though, simply rolling over with his usual quiet grunt of effort and discomfort as he pressed on the soft spot in his rib cage.

Martin was still asleep, or at least pretending to be. His eyes were closed and his breathing was even, almost like repetitive sighing. He was on his side, now facing Jon. Martin’s hands were tucked under the edge of his pillow, fingers poking out from the side hem and touching Jon’s pillowcase. It was a sight that reminded Jon that there truly was peace left in the world; _this_ was the peace they had worked to preserve. Not true paradise or utopia or some third kind of glossy-perfection-state, but a type that was vulnerable to fear and death and—well, everything horrible that Martin and Jon had already seen—but continued to thrive anyway. _That_ was real peace. It was the exhale after a very long moment of thinking the inhale would be your last.

Martin was the deep breath _and_ the long sigh for Jon. He was everything.

“You know I can feel when you stare at me, right?” Martin mumbled, his voice cracking with sleep. “It’s like being caught in a spotlight first thing in the morning.”

“S-Sorry.” Jon averted his eyes to just left of Martin’s face: his worn and fraying collar; the low hanging shoulder hem of his vastly over-sized shirt; the gentle blush of Martin’s elbows when he first woke up and his body flushed from his and Jon’s close proximity, and refusal to loneliness defeated the night before; the move of the blankets as Martin moved his legs—one hooking over Jon’s. “I forget how strong my vision is in the morning.”

Martin cracked his eyes open slowly. He squinted to bring Jon’s face into focus, and Jon did the same in return to tease—and to try and obscure his Watching.

When Jon was distracted, the Eye was more casually ravenous than usual. It didn’t hunt for the terror of others as it had Before, but wanted to peel back people to know them—sometimes, just for the better (Jon liked to pretend). Sometimes Jon just thought the Eye wanted intimacy. It was no surprise that It was particularly taken with Martin, whenever Jon put him into view.

“What were you looking at?” Martin jostled Jon’s leg. “Was I snoring again?”

“I was just looking.” Jon hoped the sentiment could still be romantic coming from him. “Sometimes I can’t help it.” Eh, probably wasn’t.

“Yeah?” Martin didn’t believe Jon; the irony of _needing_ to look at Martin because he was such a reflection and projection of happiness diluted the confession. “I’ll have to start sleeping facing the other way then, huh?”

“No,” Jon said quickly, definitely too quickly. For some reason the joke felt cold, like Jon couldn’t let that thought continue in Martin’s mind for one more moment. Not _that_ morning… “I like seeing you right when I first wake up.” Jon reached over to place his hand on Martin’s cheek.

Martin was still under Jon’s hand, taking a moment before warming up to the touch and moving beneath it. “Oh, well… t-that’s good to know.” His cheek lifted as he smiled, and Jon moved his thumb to brush over it slowly. “Nice to know you like seeing me. Considering you’re _all eyes_.” Martin laughed although Jon could feel the discomfort—the dis _belief_.

“Why would I not like looking at my boyfriend? He’s really something.” Jon savored calling Martin his _boyfriend_ for, hopefully, the last time.

Martin’s leg shifted and rested more heavily on Jon’s upper thigh, lightly trapping him. “What do you want?” Martin jokingly narrowed his eyes and poked Jon on the chest. “Oh, _I_ know… You’re just like every other man.”

Jon began laughing, too. “God, what a compliment. Genuinely.” Jon let his hand be pushed off of Martin’s face as he was pulled in closer to Martin. He instead placed both his hands against Martin’s chest, feeling the collar of his shirt with his anxious fingers.

“So so predictable.” Martin continued, feigning shock and outrage.

“Oh, so now _you’re_ the mind reader?”

“All men want the same thing—one tells you they were _just looking_ or they _like looking at you_. Oh, they want one thing.” Martin said, still squinting but fighting a grin. “You want me to make us breakfast, huh?”

Actually, Jon was still trying to learn what it was like to be physically hungry the way human beings were _supposed_ to be. Any and all “primal” and “basic” hunger had become foreign, and Jon was so lucky to have someone who remembered—and offered to cook, despite playfully insinuating Jon was twisting Martin’s arm into it.

“That involves you getting up though, doesn’t it?”

“Well, there isn’t a kitchen in here, now is there?”

“God, if I was more handy I’d remodel the whole flat for you.” Jon muttered, suddenly exposed to be wistful in his desire to _never_ leave the tight, warm embrace Martin had wrapped him in.

“Oh, yeah?” Martin had rested his chin on the top of Jon’s head, his voice vibrating against it. “Does that mean you’ll change that awful tile in the bathroom too?”

“Anything.” Jon said quietly. It was too late to be embarrassed—in both the conversation, and in that point of the relationship—but Jon’s face burned as he tucked into Martin’s chest. “All of it.”

“Oh, you must be exhausted. Talking like this?” Martin’s hands spread over Jon’s back, holding him how he would when they would try to _get_ to sleep. “Don’t make me any empty promises.” He laughed.

“I wouldn’t.”

Jon could feel another promise imminently approaching their morning. And the thought it could come across as empty or not _nearly_ as sincere as Jon meant it crushed some part of him. How could Martin think Jon would ever promise him something he had no intentions of giving to him? Be it redecorating, space, time, self. Promises were easy to make because it was second nature to Jon to dedicate himself to Martin—to _someone,_ rather than a _something,_ that wanted all of him too.

“How about we eat and then we revisit your desire to become a home renovator?” Martin pressed his hands firmly against Jon’s back as he rolled them over, Jon now resting on top of Martin.

Jon was able to look down at Martin with unrelenting adoration, feeling as if he had permission to do so. No embarrassment or hasty explanation as to _why_. Jon was able to look at Martin, if only to wade in the knowing that that morning was what he was waiting for.

“I suppose if I’m not careful you’ll just carry me to the kitchen with you.” Jon said, breaking his own awaited daydreams. He rolled over and landed his feet on the floor, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Could always use a sous chef.” Martin said, sitting up. He placed his hand on Jon’s back, cutting through the playful back and forth to invite Jon into the quiet morning routine Martin held near-sacred—if things really could be thought of as sacred anymore. Preparing the first meal and personal delivery of warmth every morning seemed to be the best option though, if Jon was being honest.

“I think I’ll get changed first.” Usually, Jon’s anxious tick was continually brushing his hair, but the recent Change and cut of his hair meant he had to go another route—and perhaps changing his clothes wasn’t a poor first choice.

“Alright. I’ll keep everything warm then.” Martin wiggled his legs out from around Jon before standing. “I’ll leave you to it.” He kissed Jon’s cheek and left, somewhat promptly.

Jon hoped there was nothing in his voice that suggested he wanted solitude, rather than privacy to prepare.

Jon pulled out their dresser drawers, digging through them with incurable distaste. The worst thing about the _moment_ appearing to him suddenly meant he hadn’t been able to plan much of anything—and started the morning he decided to ask Martin to marry him wearing pajamas he’d drug all the way from university. Jon had to look slightly more presentable if he wanted to be taken seriously…

Finally, his hands landed on something. He felt the material—and knew what it was—before he saw it. It was the only bit of orange Jon owned in his wardrobe: a long, canvas-feeling frock. After months of being _dead_ and then in the Buried, on top of already weak joints and muscles, Jon had been in need of clothes that didn’t require so much bending, leaning, lifting—and a solution had been a dress, much to Martin’s genius.

The color reminded Jon of the first autumn he ever spent with Martin. There was no fanfare to it, actually, but something about the chilling weather outside and constant promise of something and someone warm waiting for him at home made it seem like the entire universe was on his side—for _once_. The color was the same as the trees he would pass on his walk back to his flat, the color of the teabags Martin always had at the Institute, was the color of the November chill with a lover by his side and the contentment in his heart knowing that cold weather would fade, but a house was forever.

Before Jon had fully closed their bedroom door over, dressed with as much care _and_ haste as possible, Martin was walking back toward him. He was speaking as if Jon was farther away, nearly shouting. It scared them both.

“Hey, what kind of tea— _Oh_! Sorry, I— wait, haven’t seen you wear that in a while.” Martin stood with the two tea tins in his hand, still and with a smile that quickly faltered. “I-Is everything okay? Your back?”

“No! I just… Felt like it. You bought this for me, remember?” Jon picked up the side hems and flared the skirt up a bit, exposing his large, knitted socks: Martin’s first and last dabble at the craft.

“Of course I do. Agonized over the color for _ages_. Burnt orange, who would have ever thought.”

“Well, after you said your favorite type of pie was pumpkin, I guess I’ve been convinced the color is a good choice.” Jon said, shrugging. “And I’ll take whatever tea you’re making for yourself. If you don’t mind.” Usually that meant some kind of herbal lemon _something_ served far hotter than the suggested temperature.

“Oh, okay then.” Martin nodded to the one tin and tucked back away to the kitchen. Jon followed after, careful when invading the morning ritual already in progress.

The kettle was resting on the stove, the heat just under the highest setting: giving Jon some time before the water started truly boiling. The two mugs were already set out, Martin now unraveling the teabag strings and wrapping them around the handles. Jon didn’t need to ask—in any sense of the word—to know which mug was meant to be his own. The mug had no handles, but still thick yellow ceramic, straying it far from being a dainty cup. Cradling it, steam coiling under Jon’s nose and fogging up his glasses, was truly the first memory every morning that the worst could possibly be over, and Jon was getting another day of peace.

On the opposite side of the L counter was a small cup of yogurt, spoon rested against the side and cinnamon half stuck up the handle. It was already half-eaten, the faint smell of sweet, artificial vanilla trailing the small space. Jon lingered at the corner of the kitchen on his way to the table, Martin catching him observing the mid-motion morning.

“Oh, sorry.” Martin said, grabbing his yogurt. “I’ve got enough water on for oats if you want but I just—I didn’t mean to start without you.” Martin looked at his spoon sheepishly. “Sometimes I just still get in the habit of doing things on my own.”

Jon refused to take the action as any sign of lack of affection, or disregard or wrinkle in shared feelings. For all the relief Jon had knowing that he was safe with Martin, Jon knew Martin had just as much baggage to work through to find the same comfort—and sometimes routine and familiarity weren’t enough to remind him that the good days were still there, and still coming. It was just a matter of being: Martin loved Jon, and the continual appearance of the Eye (and its knowledge), and Jon loved Martin, and all of the Lonely that came with him.

“I wasn’t thinking anything of it.” Jon waved the worry away. He remembered, as his hands flopped down to his sides, that the dress had pockets.

“What can I get you?” Martin sounded far too apologetic: like a waiter and less like a spouse. Jon shook his head, refusing the gesture in hopes of denying the shame. “Would you like some toast? I-I feel like that’s what you want this morning.” Martin’s tone lifted. “I’m reading your mind.”

“Oh, now are you?”

“Hm, I can see it.” Martin hummed, putting his spoon back in his mouth. “Yes, two slices of well burnt toast are in your future.”

“The Eye can’t see the future, Martin.” Jon laughed, letting his head hang to the side adoringly. He didn’t care _how_ he looked.

“I’m still right, aren’t I?” Martin wagged his spoon at Jon, nearly tapping him on the nose.

“Down to the number.”

While they waited for the toast, Martin leaned back against the counter and finished his yogurt. The gentle tick of the toaster coasted in the background of Martin’s teasing investigation to Jon’s sudden interest in home renovation. Jon attempted humor in the form of pretending that understanding furniture instructions and plans were in the Eye’s wheelhouse, and that it would simply be a manner of manpower—which Jon _surely_ had down. The crack of Jon’s hip as he shifted against the counter was more of a punchline than his lighthearted tone.

The toast popped up and stopped Jon from having to convince Martin he knew absolutely anything about coordinating colors and textures, or that he could create any kind of decorative “flow”. Martin tossed the spoon into the sink with a gentle clatter before reaching for a plate. The kettle was whistling as well, but Martin’s position in front of the counter made it clear he had no intention of letting Jon help with pouring the water—or grabbing his own toast.

“Any spread?” Martin asked, kettle now in hand.

“Actually, no. Just boring today.”

“Are you sure, you’re alright?” Martin looked over his shoulder, kettle tilted back up with a slosh.

“Just simple today.” Jon said, although the thought of fussing over food was making him lose his appetite even more. The moment was approaching—the moment they’d sit together and have a silence ready for the taking—and Jon had no idea how to utilize the chance. He had to cultivate _some_ kind of romantic move. He couldn’t very well just _ask_ , but he didn’t want to fuss and lose the opportunity. And somehow buttering toast was one of those obstacles.

“Okay, well, in the spirit of boring: I ran down and got you the paper.” Martin said, turning around finally with breakfast made.

“Oh, thank you.” Jon smiled. He accepted the plate of toast from Martin with both hands, as if the weight of the gesture was tangible. Jon had never been more sure of how love was meant to _feel_ in his entire life. Yes, warm and soft and enveloping—that was all _inside_. Now, Jon had a feeling of how it was _outside_. In his hand, firm and solid but not overwhelming. Not heavy. Not tiring. Simply present, and placed there by another gentle hand, able to carry the weight at any moment, were it to be too much.

Martin picked up both mugs and carried them to the table, pulling Jon’s seat out with his ankle. He left his own mug—usually sized, flared at the top like petals of a flower, and a brilliant turquoise—at the seat across from Jon before walking back to the kitchen. Martin held up a singular finger to Jon in requested patience before disappearing.

The clattering dishes and running faucet were joined—and slightly blanketed—by the quiet voice of the radio. The song was too far and soft for Jon to pull out any one melody or lyric, but Martin seemed to know it; his humming reaching Jon at the table. Sliding his mug over and prepared to wait, Jon unfolded the newspaper and paged back to the crossword. It was usually a pretty boring affair for Jon; the Eye liking to tell him the answer before he had a moment to consider it with his own life experience. Most of the time, Martin would just hover over Jon’s shoulder and start picking out clues, slightly distracting him and getting him _just_ confused enough to have to think on a clue or two.

Jon scanned down the list of Across clues, still fumbling around at the end of the table for a pen among the other mail and flyers. _Operatic, Condiment, NNW, Husband—_

The noise in the kitchen was a thankful buffer between Jon and the audible _gasp_ he made, pausing over the clue. Something in Jon’s anxiety, loitering since he awoke, broke finally. This was his way in, the way to approach the toughest question but easiest promise to make.

“Hey, Martin?” Jon clicked his pen and pretended to be hunched over the puzzle. The kitchen sink had turned off. “You want to help me with this?”

“Are you trying to pull up the floorboards?” Martin called back, laughing.

“I’m doing the crossword.”

“The— _what_?” The sound of Martin’s footsteps brought him back from the kitchen, wiping his hands in a dish towel. He raised his eyebrows and shifted his footing, resting his shoulder against the archway. “You need _help_?”

“Can’t I?” Jon rested his hands on the paper, cocking his head. He tried to cover the clues with his hands, the answers slipping into the forefront of thought before he’d registered he’d read them.

“Well, I—I _guess_ but I’m just… Usually, I do the opposite of help.”

“That’s not true! I didn’t know the name of the world’s largest spider. You helped with that.”

“So, goliath birdeater? Is that why you keep me around?” Martin crossed his arms.

“There has to be someone smarter than me around here.”

“Oh, I see we’ve gotten better at lying.” Martin chuckled, turning back to the kitchen.

“I’m being serious.” Jon said. He resisted deflation. “And your tea is getting cold.”

“I’m almost done; while I’m in here I figured I might as well.”

“Martin,”

“Just _hold on_.”

Jon’s impatience was probably a tell, but he couldn’t let the chance slide. The Eye left alone with a row of clues but none filled in—or one mysteriously left unanswered—would be more suspicious (and maybe worrying) than Jon’s insistence that Martin join him for the breakfast that he made.

“You can start without me.” Martin suggested, his tone surprisingly much like a song. Jon wasn’t sure what he did to deserve such unwavering brightness. “Or, hit me while I’m rinsing these out.”

Jon considered starting with a decoy clue; one that would distract Martin and thus cause more of a surprise. It seemed romantic; something Jon had seen in nearly every movie and could even consider be something he would’ve done on his own _without_ the previous childhood inundation of _what to do when one proposes_. But then again, Jon had the thought—the near vision—of Martin being far too distracted by the throw away clues and trying to figure them out to truly understand what Jon was asking when he requested Martin respond with the word _husband_.

Being direct seemed to be the best option to Jon. And by best, it surely meant one that made every bit of his body feel numb and tremble, nearly forgetting how to form his words.

“Okay, uh, well, Martin, I need a word for ‘long-term partner’, seven letters.” Jon tapped his pen against his lip. The radio clicked off and Martin’s footsteps didn’t immediately follow. Jon could See him standing by the sink, folding the towel, slowly reacting to the question.

_Husband. Husband. It’s husband. The answer is husband. Seven: H-U-S-B-A-N-D._

“Do you _mind_?” Jon muttered, shaking his head slightly and breaking his concentration with the puzzle. “I’m _trying_ to _do_ something—”

“Seven letters?” Martin asked, walking back to him.

“Yes. I-I tried _spouse_ and, well, partner can’t work because it’s in the clue.” Jon clenched his jaw as he kept himself from slipping from his conscious state of _ignorance_ into the slightly glazed-over world of _all-knowing_. He kept staring at Martin, hoping the word would surface simply by looking back at Jon.

“Jon,” He said, blinking twice. “are you proposing to me?”

“I—” Jon sputtered at Martin’s flat, calm tone. “Well, I— Wait. Why do you not sound pleased by that?”

Martin blinked again, his face still and almost lax, before paling. He grabbed the other dining chair and hurriedly sat down. Jon pulled the crossword back, slightly worried. “I—Wait, are you?”

“Uh, I guess I am. Yes.”

“You’re _not_.”

“I—Martin, do you not _want_ me to? I have to admit I’m confused.”

“No no no, sorry. I’m just— _really_? Fuck… I really wasn’t ready. T-Try it again?”

“… I need a seven-letter word for long-term partner.”

Martin took a deep breath. “Jonathan.”

“That’s eight letters.”

“N- _No_. I’m trying to— _Jonathan_.” Martin said, sliding his hands forward.

“That has—Oh, oh. You’re addressing me. Okay. Yes, _Martin_.” Jon tried to clear the directness from his voice and leave only the soft intention from uttering a loved one’s name.

“Are you asking me to marry you?” It occurred to Jon that he never formally asked the question (twice), Martin trying to cast the line out for him.

“Yes. I am.” Jon said, swallowing his uncomfortable tick of laughter. “Martin, would you like to marry me?”

“ _Like to_?” Martin squeaked out, laughing. He reached over and grabbed Jon’s hands over the puzzle. “Of course I do—I want to. There is no one else I’d want to marry.”

“Oh, well, that’s reassuring.”

“ _Jon_.”

“I—sorry.” Making jokes and deflecting severity—and sincerity—wasn’t how the moment was supposed to go. But Jon couldn’t very well claim he was joking and try it again another day. There was a reason he did it then—and it was that the moment came to _Jon_ and offered the right amount of silence to articulate just what Jon couldn’t keep inside himself any longer.

Who was he—and how rude would it be—to turn down such a chance and be back in his own self-enclosed fascination with Martin? Shut him out and never let him know that he was loved and always would be.

Martin was looking at Jon—and looking around him—with poorly hidden confusion. “I-Isn’t there, uh, supposed to be something you _give_ me?”

“Oh! Uh, yes, well.” Jon cleared his throat but gripped Martin’s hands tighter. “I was going to buy you a ring but I-I’ve never seen you wear any hand jewelry and I didn’t know if you liked them and would rather get you something that is more in the style of—and less of an inconvenience to—you.” Jon had to stop his own rambling with a slow inhale. “If that’s… acceptable.”

“You didn’t get me a ring,” Martin repeated. “Because you wanted to make sure that I would like it?”

“Well, yes.”

“And you didn’t want to Know it about me. You wanted to ask.”

“I find that to really make a gesture one has to _know_ that you’re doing it…” Jon muttered. He supposed he could’ve Known if Martin would say yes, but then what was the point of love if not to be a little nervous at the exposure and vulnerability of his own feelings.

It was never _only_ about being loved in return, but sometimes just about putting oneself out there and telling the world that _you_ were in love—and _could_ be, despite anything you feared before.

“That’s more of a gesture than actually giving me one.” Martin smiled, but his joy was betrayed by a small quiver of his bottom lip. “Oh, _Jon_.”

Realistically, Jon knew that Martin cried when he was happy, when he was touched and felt indescribable heightened moments of _everything_ (as he said). But there was something unnerving about seeing Martin have to wipe his eyes and gather himself at the hands of Jon’s fumbled marriage proposal. He wasn’t even kneeling, wasn’t even holding a ring, hadn’t even delivered a coherent or memorized speech—and Martin was crying. Jon should’ve done more; this couldn’t have been a heightened, overwhelming moment. Jon felt so much more for Martin; Jon understood the notion of completion in Martin’s arms and willed immortality, not just to them but their love every time he kissed Martin.

“Martin, I—”

“ _Yes!_ Of course, it’s _yes_. You don’t have to ask it another way, don’t try to wind it back— _yes_ of course!” Martin bubbled with laughter. No longer were his tears just reactions to Jon’s gesture, but it was clear that Martin was trying to reach Jon all on his own. This was his gesture: vulnerability and bright warm laughter tangled with the sweet sadness of knowing that all those past nihilistic moments of thinking saving the world was for nothing was _actually_ about saving this exact moment—when everything was alright again, when it was _theirs_.

“I was just going to say,” Jon said, turning Martin’s hands over in his own. “that I love you. And I’m not sure how much more simply—or complicated—I can say it.”

Martin breathed another short laugh. “That’s eight letters, you know.”

“Cut off the _I_ and it fits.” Jon shrugged. “We have enough of those in the marriage already.”


End file.
